Solomon was a murderer, a rapist, and an unrepentant. He was also a horribly abused child and quite possibly a multiple personality. He had never sought leniency, and Mary Margaret even speculated that the behavior he exhibited at the end of his spree, indicated he was looking for suicide by cop. But he was taken alive. Waiving all appeals, he was dead by lethal injection within two years.
In this building, Rita always had the sense that someone was going to close in on her from behind. She made Karin choose a table near the wall where Rita could sit facing the entire room.
“The FBI called you?” Karin rested her fork in her salad bowl.
Rita talked with her mouth full of French fries. “Umm, no big deal.”
“Why are they getting involved?”
“Could be a couple of things. Could be they want to be left alone—like Garbo—and that’s a real possibility. They might see me as some kind of wing nut off on a tangent.” Rita looked at Karin and smiled. “Though how they could have gotten that impression is truly beyond me.”
Karin smiled back and shook her head. “You went in like the caped crusader?”
“Moi?”
“Vous.”
“I was assertive and adamant at the end of our meeting when Gutierrez wouldn’t answer questions.” Rita tilted her head back and laughed.
“I see.”
“But there are some other possibilities about dragging in the Feds.”
“Like there’s something to your accusations and they want you off the trail right now?” Karin pointed her salad fork at Rita.
“Bingo.”
“Or they’re nervous about bad publicity and they want to institute spin control on any possible links to the most remote of scandals.”
“You’re such a clever girl – and not as mean as Mary Margaret.” Rita stuffed more French fries into her mouth. “But whatever, I’m going to stick around like a bad dream.”
“You will be careful?” Karin’s smile dissolved.
“You’re the one who has to carry armor.” Rita tapped Karin’s metal clipboard, which lay on the table. “And speaking of that—Dr. Demento?”
“No news is good news,” Karin said.
Rita nodded.
♏
Georgetown hustled with its usual snarl of fashionable traffic—lots of low-slung Mercedes convertibles with bored Washington wives at the wheel. Students, who would be the next wave of law merchants and king makers, strolled the cobbled sidewalks with flush knapsacks and equally flush wallets. Rita slowed at the traffic light and made her turn.
Titleton Associate’s office was a huge brick building just past M on Wisconsin. Clones in dark suits with briefcases strode through the glass doors like doctors on their way to the bank. She did catch a glimpse of one woman, young, but no less prepossessed than her male counterparts.
The receptionist, an all-American type with blonde hair and blue eyes, sized up Rita. “May I help you?”
“I have an appointment with Dalton Foster.” Rita glanced up at the twenty-five-foot windows that rose like cathedral panes into the reaches of the three-story open atrium.
Clients with appointments seemed to have a soothing effect on the receptionist. She smiled demurely through her red lipstick and touched a button on an electronic telephone that might have come from the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.
“Third door on the left on the second floor.”
Rita waded through the surf of expensive carpet. On the stairs she passed a cadre of Koreans trooping in file to exit. She passed a conference room, long and wide, centered with a massive walnut table and chairs ample enough for men in armor. The chandelier was worthy of Cinderella’s ballroom.
Another blonde haired, blue eyed woman greeted Rita in Dalton Foster’s outer office. “Please go in.”
“The Stepford Wives get jobs as secretaries,” Rita whispered to herself.
“Ms. Mars, it’s a pleasure to have you visit. I’m very familiar with your writing. I’ve been a fan.” Dalton must have just come back from a conjugal visit with his money in the Cayman’s. He had a deep tan, accented brilliantly by his ultra-white, starched collar and the gold wristband of his watch.
“Even when I accused your firm of the Ted Turner approach to the war in El Salvador?” Rita took a seat without waiting for an invitation.
“You mean when you said it was our job to colorize the Sandinistas for American consumption?”
“You did read my article.”
“It’s my job to know where the potholes are—and how to minimize them.” Dalton sat back in a leather chair that couched his body like King Kong’s palm.
“Well, now that we know which side each of us is on, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your new cinematic production.”
“Which is?” Foster asked. Behind him, a wall-sized modern artwork gave him an aura of emerging from some cosmic force field.
“Healthcare legislation.”
Foster nodded. “So we have a contract with the Mexican Trade Consul to represent their interests in this country.” He frowned. “But I would hardly compare this lobbying effort with the El Salvadoran program—which, by the way, was also strictly on the up and up according to guidelines handed down by State Department.”
“I have reason to believe that a friend of mine, Bobby Ellis, was working on a story about this bill.” Rita studied the inlay detail work of Foster’s desk. The piece reminded her of an ornate bunker.
“Ellis sounds familiar.” Foster squinted and the sun weathered lines around his eyes crinkled. “Wasn’t he the guy who killed himself?”
“I don’t think it was suicide.” Rita watched Foster’s face for telltale signals of lying.
“And you think I did it?” Foster leaned forward in his chair so that the leather creaked in surprise.
“I think Ellis found something about the new healthcare program that cost him his life.”
Foster smoothed over his shock then stood in defense of his honor. “Impossible. And you’re certainly barking up the wrong tree here. You as well as anybody should understand we don’t have to kill people to get our way.”
“Money doesn’t work on everybody.” Rita stood as well.
“I used to think that.” Foster came around the desk to escort her out.
“It wouldn’t work on me.”
Foster studied her for a moment. “Maybe not, but it would work on someone else to dilute your impact.”
Rita stared straight into his face. “My point exactly about how Bobby Ellis got to be dead.”
Chapter 28
Rita stood at her kitchen window. The room was dark except for the red eye of the coffee maker. At 5 a.m. on November mornings with the sun still snug behind the horizon, the backyard glowed in the unearthly blue of a mercury lamp on the barn.
Strewn across the kitchen table were papers where Rita left them for the night before. Second cup of coffee in hand, she turned for a glance at her futile readings then looked again through the window. A fox trotted across the driveway, his brush sweeping the asphalt.
She hated the silence. Too many unquiet pictures of the past surfaced in tranquility—her father raging, her mother crying. Maybe that’s why her life was so unsettled. Activity was the remedy for remembrance.
“Hey, come here.” Rita reached to stroke The Great White Hunter who rubbed his good morning greeting against her sweatpants.
She picked him up and sat in a chair at the table. As soon as she let go, the cat jumped to the floor.
“In ten years, you’d think you’d get used to sitting in my lap and being petted—like other cats,” Rita said.
The Great White Hunter purred.
“But you’re not like other cats, are you?”
The cat nestled his head into Rita’s hand.
“That’s why we get along so well,” she said. “Neither one of us is like what we’re supposed to be.”
The Great White Hunter sauntered away to his food bowl.
Ri
ta grunted, got up and turned on the kitchen light, which exposed her hours of failure from the night before. She gathered the strewn papers into two piles and set one pile at her left, one at her right. She had one page remaining on which was a list in her handwriting. She studied it for a long time.
“How long have you been up?” Karin shuffled into the kitchen. She wore an extra-large sweatshirt as pajamas. On her feet were thick rag socks.
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?” Rita asked.
“Not really. I just had a sense something was going on down here. Got some extra coffee?” Karin reached into the cabinet for a cup.
“Plenty.” Rita poured coffee into the offered cup. “But you don’t get up this early. Go on back to bed; I’ll call you when a reasonable hour appears.”
“I’m too awake. Any luck?” Karin pointed at the papers on the table.
“No.” Rita pulled a package of frosted cinnamon buns from the breadbox.
“I’m sorry I interrupted last night.”
“Didn’t matter. I’d been staring at this stuff for hours before you got here. I probably needed the break and getting away today will give me a fresh perspective when I get back to this.” Rita handed Karin a plate with a hunk of the pastry.
“I’ll just strap these to my thighs.”
“No calories if you eat them early enough in the morning.”
“Oh, really?” Karin took a big bite and said with her mouth full, “In that case I’ll set my alarm and start eating lunch and dinner before I go to work.”
“Good idea.” Rita chewed her pastry, but her eyes wandered to her handwritten list.
“What are you looking for anyway?”
“Well, I’ve got Charles Strutt’s list of contributors in this pile.” Rita tapped the papers on her right. “And I’ve got Titleton’s foreign client list here.” She tapped the papers on her left.
“I remember that much from last night, but you were pretty fuzzy on the rest.” Karin said.
“I’m looking for something to jump out, something that looks like illegal payoffs, something that Bobby Ellis might have stumbled on when he was working his story.”
“I’m still not getting it. Sorry, I’m really dense on this.”
Rita smiled. “You’re not alone. This stuff is very complex to read: easy to manipulate and hide in. Anyway, here goes.”
She took a swig of coffee. “It’s big business for American PR firms to hire former government honchos and solicit foreign interests to pay huge fees for entry to federal agencies and our lovely legislative bodies that these honchos came from.”
“Well, I do get that much.” Karin said.
“Ok, so Titleton has the contract for the Government of Mexico and for the Mexican Free Trade Association because they have some guys working for them who retired from our Commerce and State Departments. Their job for this specific contract is to smooth the way for Mexican business here. But I just can’t connect the dots on Mexico and U.S. healthcare.”
Karin nodded and took another bite of her pastry.
“Over here we have Charles Strutt, the head of the Senate Commerce Committee who has taken, according to Pete DeVane, a serious about-face on his anti-healthcare stance. So, what I’m looking for is evidence in his list of contributors that Strutt’s getting some kind of back door money from Mexico. And if I knew what they were trying to buy in this legislation, it’d be a whole lot easier.”
Karin picked up Rita’s handwritten list. “And these are?”
“These are my guesses as to how either of the Mexican groups could have disguised their names in order to circumvent the law against direct foreign contribution.”
“Not a big list,” Karin said. “This doesn’t look like enough groups, given contribution limits, to make a serious buy off.”
“I know.” Rita ran her fingers through her hair and rested her forehead on the table. After a moment she sat up.
“Mind if I make a suggestion?” Karin studied Rita’s list. “You’ve concentrated on groups that have something to do with trade. Maybe they called them something else to disguise their involvement.”
“Yes.” Rita brightened. “That’s it. Why didn’t I think of that? I even wrote a story about how foreign business helps organize community consumer groups and study groups, any kind of body they can leverage to make them appear like just another U.S. company.” She gave Karin a high five.
“The best thing is that I got a list of last years’ contributors to Strutt’s war chest and I can go through to see who the brand-new donors are. I can slim down the list, then run down info on all the new kids on the block.” Rita made a face. “Yuck, hours of research.”
“But it’ll be worth it,” Karin said.
“Yes, I think it will.”
“And while you’re scrubbing that list,” Karin yawned. “I think I’ll take in another dose of caffeine.”
“Good therapy.” Rita was already lining out the repeat contributors. “I have an interesting total of fifteen first time organizations.”
“Would you think fifteen is enough for a big amount of money? I mean, aren’t foreign interests limited in what they can give?”
“Sure and they have to report those contributions to the Federal Election Committee. However, if they get American companies or individuals to form these PACS, they can funnel an unlimited amount of soft money. Independent PACS don’t have the same kinds of restrictions.” Rita eyed the buns quickly, but turned away.
“Clever,” Karin said.
“Very. Some of those new contributors have very interesting names—Texas Consumers’ Association; Americans for Central American Study; Plastics Council of North America.”
“They sound so authentic,” Karin said.
“Most cons do.” Rita answered.
♏
Later Karin met Rita at her office around seven; they had a date for dinner. The wind whistled off the granite ledges at Rita’s windows, forcing bedded pigeons to bury their heads deeper beneath their wings. When Karin entered the office was dark except for the glow of the PC screen on Rita’s desk.
Karin switched on the light. “You’ll ruin your eyes.”
“Too late. I already had a nasty habit that did that.” Rita let her reading glasses slip down her nose. She peered up at Karin to grin.
“Finding anything?” Karin came around the desk to look over Rita’s shoulder.
“Everything.” Rita rubbed her eyes. “The onion is peeling, slowly but surely.”
“You found a connection in those new contributors?”
“I found the connection,” Rita said. “That great patriotic organization called Americans for an Open Market Economy.”
Karin pulled up a chair. “So, dazzle me with details.”
“I hired a paralegal in DC to do most of the grunt work, and she sent these file transfers over today on the first batch of contributing PACs she finished investigating. This is how it appears to be going. On the surface, it seems like a bunch of independent U.S. consumer and trade groups are getting together in righteous fervor to support this healthcare bill. What the paralegal is finding out, what I told her to look for, is a parent organization. If there was even a mention of some other affiliation, she was to run it down.”
“All roads lead to Americans for an Open Market Economy?” Karin asked.
“Exactly, and she’s not finished with half the list I sent.” Rita rubbed her eyes again.
“You’re exhausted.”
“Only a little.”
“Like somebody’s a little bit dead.” Karin sniffed.
“I can’t sleep.” Rita launched herself from the chair and paced in front of the desk. “I’m going to bring this case to conclusion. I’m going to find Bobby’s killer.”
“And it just might be these Open Market people?”
“I’ve got to find out who they are, where they came from.” Rita returned to her chair. “I know that you wouldn’t, but promise you won’t say what I told you just
now—about this group?”
“I would never,” Karin promised.
“I can’t let them know I understand the scheme. It’s too early in the game. They could scatter. I have to herd them into the canyon.” Rita switched off her PC.
“This is a very dangerous course you’re on.” Karin led the way as Rita pointed to the office door.
“Maybe.” They stood in the hallway. Rita turned off the light and locked her office door.
Karin grabbed her arm when she started down the hall. “Not maybe. Bobby Ellis is as dead as they come. He must have found this same entrance to the tomb.”
“What a great analogy.” Rita smiled and started walking again.
“Listen to me.” Karin snatched at her coat sleeve. “This isn’t some high stakes poker game or the usual Washington mud wrestling. This is real stuff. You’ve got to protect yourself.”
“Ok, ok. I’m going to.” Rita turned away again.
“Tell me how.”
“In the car—on the way to dinner,” Rita said.
“Now.”
“Geez, you’re touchy.”
Karin waited without speaking.
Rita sighed. “First, you won’t say anything. Second, my inquiries will be exceptionally less confrontational and open than Bobby’s. Third, I’ve got a packet of information with what I know so far in my safe deposit box. I’m keeping nothing with me so even if I get ransacked again, the assholes won’t find a piece of anything. Do I get the Good Housekeeping seal yet?”
“What you just said has nothing to do with what I asked. How are you protecting yourself , you, Rita Mars?” Karin touched Rita’s coat sleeve again, but with a feel of comfort and protection rather than urgency.
Rita swallowed hard. She undid the buttons of her overcoat and pulled back the lapels of the jacket she wore over her turtleneck. The seasoned leather straps of her shoulder holster harnessed the left side of her body. The Glock 19, plastic miracle of firepower, was a dark hulk under her arm.
Karin bowed her head. “I don’t know which is worse. Them with a gun or you with a gun.”
Rita quickly let her coat fall back into place. She buttoned it. “Thanks for that great vote of confidence. I happen to be an excellent marksman.”
DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller Page 22